


'I Love You'

by PandoraButler



Series: Sherlock One-Shots [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 04, The Final Problem, Trailer, i love you trailer, series 4 trailer, series four trailer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 03:30:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12740121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PandoraButler/pseuds/PandoraButler
Summary: So, when the trailer came out with Sherlock saying 'I Love You' I simply had to write a one-shot about it. Yep. Enjoy. Not saying anything about it because spoilers (to the fic not the show).





	1. 'I Love You'

"Sherlock," a voice said from the speakers on the wall. Sherlock wanted to scream, run away, he wanted anything but to hear the words. He knew what was going to happen now, this was something he wanted to avoid. For the longest time, he wanted to avoid it, he had tried so hard and yet, the person who was supposed to be dead had forced it out of him.

"Sherlock," it repeated, "I'll give you the courtesy of not telling the others. You and I both know what I want. So, provide it for me. You're  _secret_ , your  _deepest_   _ **darkest**_   _secret_. I want to hear it from your lips. I want to hear you say it. So be truthful now, I'll know if you're lying."

"Don't listen to him," John pleaded. He didn't know what Sherlock's secret was but he could tell, by the look on his face, by the remnants of the drugs, of the lack of sleep, of the strange behavior recently. He knew, that whatever this was hurt Sherlock, and he was dying to keep it unknown.

"I," Sherlock began. But he couldn't form the words, he couldn't look his brother, he couldn't look at John, not in the eyes at least. Instead he stared at the walls, scanning. Was this really a locked room? Was there really no way out? He had done this multiple times upon entering these dark quarters. He had done this thousands of times, hoping, that he might find a way out of announcing what he wanted to hold captive.

Secrets will do that to you. They don't hurt those around you, instead they eat at your soul. They attack you with the very idea that someone might find out. It hurts but you have to live through it, because if they were to find out, the reality would be so much worse.

Sherlock turned, back facing Mycroft and John. They stared at him, Mycroft already knew what his little brother was going to do, he was the smarter one, but it still hurt to watch. He hated to admit it, but Mycroft actually felt something similar to love for Sherlock. He liked to call it pity, but that wasn't entirely the case.

"Sherlock,  _don't_ ," Mycroft warned. He knew what was running through Sherlock's mind, he knew better than anyone. For the two were brothers, connected by blood, a string of similarities tied them to each other. They could think almost exactly the same, just one had a bit of an advantage, the advantage of age.

Mycroft's voice was stern but even Sherlock knew this wasn't going to end well. He felt his chest burn and his eyes water. He was tired of keeping secrets anyway, especially from John. He hated that, it was the worst thing. After all that he and John had been through, why couldn't the detective be honest with him? Why couldn't he tell him the truth? He should be able to now, that he was mentally prepared.

As mentally prepared as one could be, to reveal their darkest desires.

"Sherlock, time is a ticking," the voice spoke. 

"Tic tock, tic tock, tick toc," the voice repeated, over and over, the words attacking Sherlock's brain. He looked at the gun he held in hand, there was the slight chance that he could end this by shooting himself in the head. He could keep his secret to his grave, that was what this gun said. That was the devil's bargain hinting at him through his ear.

No, no he can't He can't put John though that again. He can't. He did that once, that was not going to be an option.

But what if revealing his secret was worse. What if John hated him for it? What if the result was worse than death? Well, John hating him would be worse...

Sherlock didn't have time to go over these thoughts any longer. The repeating of the chant continued, attacking him, he wanted to yell almost as much as he wanted to run away.

"John," Sherlock's voice, raspy and conflicted.

"Sherlock?" John's arms were crossed, he was tapping his foot anxiously. The ticking chant stopped. Time stopped. Everything was silent, only Sherlock's thoughts were breaking the silent whispers of the darkly light room.

"My secret," he began, "is not so simple as I'd like. It isn't just a phrase of words or sentences strung together. It is feeling John,  _feeling_ , do you know?  _Sentiment_. Those emotions that people have, that's what it is...so this might take a while, you might want to sit down," Sherlock pointed the ground with the gun. He had flailed his arms around while speaking those words, but now he stood still, now he stared at the wall. It was all he could do but cry in this moment.

Mycroft stood silent, shaking his head. His brother was a fool, they had gotten into this mess and he was a fool. Mycroft didn't understand because he had never found that goldfish, that special someone. He didn't have that lucky meeting, or unlucky meeting depending on how you looked at it. Mycroft lacked something, something so vital to all humans, something that Sherlock could never bury.

"It started the day I met you, John," Sherlock began, "you walked into that lab room and I knew it. I buried the thought and I hid it away, but I couldn't keep it locked up forever. Attraction John, that's what I told myself. Simply  _attraction_. Things are attracted to each other all the time. Opposites attract, its chemistry. Simple facts. Atoms bond together, the addition or subtraction of electrons making one chemical compound more positive or negative. It is  _science._  I knew that, I knew it well," Sherlock was trying to explain his complicated mind but the drugs had taken their toll. He wasn't himself right now, he was something else. Neither John nor Mycroft said a word, they just let Sherlock unravel, they watched as their beloved friend, brother, tore himself apart trying to say whatever it was that he had to say.

"I knew I wouldn't stay the same, God, Mycroft hoped I wouldn't. He brought you to me, somehow arranged our meeting, hoping I wouldn't be in the state I was. I needed you John, you needed me. We were the perfect match," Sherlock stopped. He took a deep breath and continued.

"John, those days we spent together, the days doing cases and running around like the mad men we were. Those were the days that I held most dear. I enjoyed them with all of my being. I even enjoyed  _Moriarty_. But I knew when we went to that pool, that I would have to die before I could live. And so, I did, I jumped off that roof, without telling you that it was all a ruse. I tried, I did, I told you it was a magic trick, but you didn't get my hint, you didn't understand like I hoped you would. I couldn't tell you and," Sherlock stopped, he took another deep breath, he put a hand to his head and sighed. He looked at the wall, cursing under his breath and tried again.

"And I spent two years trying to get rid of the guilt. The guilt of leaving,  _of dying_ , of disappearing without a trace. I traveled back to the times we did those silly cases. That was what kept me alive, that kept me alive to think that I could return to those days. I knew I couldn't, deep down I knew, but I simply  _had to try_. I had to think it was okay, false hope John, humans are great at that. As much as I like to pretend I'm not of this species, I just am. I hate it, but I am," a tear trickled down Sherlock's cheek. The intensity of what he wanted to say and what he had said was getting to him. Soon, very soon, it would all get to that final moment. That crucial moment when he would get to that main issue.

"I ignored the fact that two years had passed, because part of my hope was that you had missed me the same as I had missed you. Part of my hope was that by some chance you might have understood the note I left through that phone call. When I saw you that night, with Mary, with that ring, telling you what I am about to tell you now became ever so much harder. If I told you, if I said anything. You would take it the wrong way, you would think I was playing with your sacred emotions, because of fear. Fear that we would never be the same as we once were. But the same is true for me keeping this a secret, for I have forced this upon us. I have forced us to become something we aren't, something  _fake_. You can sense it. I know you can, that something has been wrong since I came back, that we aren't quite  _back to normal_."

Sherlock took one last final deep breath. He stopped, and waited. Allowing his words to sink in for a while. These words that he had wanted to say so many times before, but hadn't, had a much bigger weight to them. He couldn't let them pass his lips. It was harder than anything he had ever done. 

"I love you."

The words were quiet, barely there at all. They were said and then disappeared. John stopped there, arms crossed, taken aback by the statement at all. By any of it really. He didn't understand. He didn't get what Sherlock was trying to tell him so badly. John's legs failed him and he closed his eyes briefly trying to process the statement, the speech, and regain his footing.

"I don't understand," John said. He didn't, Sherlock knew that but he didn't repeat the words. He turned, to look at John, remnants of the tear still on his face. One look, that's all it took. John stared at the detective's broken expression. 

Sentiment.

Oh God, sentiment.

 _Love_.

Love for  _him_.

For John.

John opened his mouth but no words came out. There were so many things that he wanted to say but couldn't. So many things that he wanted to tell Sherlock but couldn't. How could he? How could he now? Here? This wasn't the right time or the right place. Why wasn't his brain working? Why weren't the sentences forming?

"Don't," Sherlock turned back to look at the wall. John frowned. He hadn't even said anything yet and Sherlock already refused his words.

"Please  _don't_ ," Sherlock's voice wavered once more. Again, on the verge of collapse, "I don't want to hear what you have to say, not here, not now. It isn't the right place. You're married now, and I understand how you feel about that. But later, one day, if you still feel the need to say something to me, if you still think that it is important that I know. I mean really John, if I really  _need to know_ , tell me. But not now, not  _here_ ," Sherlock held his head in his hands. The gun in one of them. He rubbed his face and tried to regain his composure. Tried to relax and hide his sentiment like all those times before.

Why was it so hard now?

"Congratulations," the voice spoke, the person that wasn't in the room themselves, began to torment once more, "You got it out. I'm so proud of you Sherlock."

The floor underneath John moved, it opened like a trap door. John was sucked down into it, he fell before he could even think. Sherlock turned, hearing the ground, feeling it move, he ran and reached out his arm. Sherlock yelled John's name and brushed fingers with his partner. 

But John continued to fall. He was lost to him. 

" _JOHN_!" he cried. It was useless, he would never be able to reach him now. Who knew how far that pit went, who knew if John would even survive. Sherlock's brain raced with all of the possibilities, all of the solutions. Everything reached one conclusion, John would die.

Sherlock looked at the gun in his hand, tempted. John was gone, possibly forever. Sherlock wasn't strong like John, he wasn't a survivor. He couldn't live for two years without John like John had without Sherlock. He tried again, to find some single line of hope, maybe John would survive this. Sherlock shook his head, no, there was no use for that now.

_John was dead._

Sherlock held the gun tightly, fiddling with it in his hand. He looked at it, then up at Mycroft. His brother stared, shaking his head with pity. Mycroft wouldn't stop Sherlock this time, he knew there was nothing he could do to convince the detective otherwise. He knew that no matter what he said, if he saved Sherlock's life, he would just go back to that miserable drug addict. He would go back to being lonely and depressed.

_Sherlock would go back to being alone._

That wasn't living, Mycroft knew that, so he accepted his brother's decision.

Sherlock raised the gun, crying full force now, he placed it to his temple, releasing the safety. He smiled sadly at his brother mouthing 'goodbye'. Sherlock cried, he kneeled there and cried. He didn't expect his life to end this way, who could've told him this? 

His finger pulled the trigger, his brains flying out and onto the wall. Mycroft looked away, not wishing to see his younger brother like that. The body fell forward, into the pit, following John's. At least the two would be together in the afterlife. Mycroft hoped so, he didn't believe in an afterlife, but for his brother, he wished there was one. Sherlock didn't deserve to die like this. He didn't deserve to kill himself. Mycroft should have stopped him, but logic forced him back. 

Sherlock wouldn't live without John.

Mycroft waited for the door to open, for him to be let out and set free.

The doors  _did_ open, he  _did_ return to his normal, boring life, telling everyone of Sherlock's and John's death, leaving out the bit about the suicide. They didn't need to know that, they didn't need to feel the pain of Reichenbach again. They could mourn him officially this time, knowing he would never return. The body would never be discovered, Mycroft made sure of that, for if it was, his blissful lie would be revealed.

Sherlock and John were buried together, in that pit.

They were together in the end, that was all that mattered.


	2. 'I Love You' Alternate (Happy) Ending

 

The floor underneath John moved. It opened like a trap door. John was sucked down into it; he fell before he could even think. Sherlock turned, hearing the ground, feeling it move, he ran and reached out his arm. Sherlock yelled John's name and managed to grab his hand. He held John there, with every fiber in his being, he attempted to pull the man up. John was slipping, Sherlock's grip was loosening. 

Would he be able to manage this?

One of Sherlock's hands was holding onto Mycroft, while the other was holding on to John. He struggled, trying so desperately to hold on. Why couldn't humans be stronger than this? Why did people have to be so weak? Why didn't Sherlock work out more?

"Sherlock," John said, "Let go," he ordered. Sherlock refused.

"I'm not losing you, I can't lose you, John," he said.

"Sherlock, let go," he tried again. Sherlock refused, yet again. The two stared at each other, their eyes battling this idea out. John pleading; Sherlock refusing. Mycroft gagging at the scene.

"You can't hold onto me forever," John stated. Sherlock ignoring him. He knew that if it were the other way around John would do the same for him.

"Stop complaining and try to climb up," Sherlock said. John, seeing that Sherlock really wasn't going to listen to him, like the stubborn man he was. Sherlock wasn't strong enough to keep hold, so he would just have to try with all of his being to manage this feat.

By sheer will alone the three managed this. Mycroft took as many steps as he could back, and Sherlock still holding on tightly to John. Step by step John was dragged out of the death trap. Step by step he managed to remain among the living.

The three lay on the ground, exhausted from that miserable moment. John lying next to Sherlock, Sherlock lying next to Mycroft. The words that Sherlock had said still played themselves back over and over again in John's mind. He didn't know what to say in response. Sherlock didn't want a response but John knew he had to give one. John didn't know when the moment would come that one of them would lose their life. So, before that happened, he must answer Sherlock's confession.

"Sherlock," he looked over to the detective lying next to him. The detective looked back. They lay there, staring into each other's eyes silently, as John caught his breath.

Sherlock knew what was coming, he knew John would say something. He hated that John was like this. Couldn't he just leave things as they were? Sherlock wouldn't stand being rejected so soon. He couldn't stand that.

John stared, knowing Sherlock was thinking the worst. The right words weren't coming to him right now, he couldn't think of the right way to get his point across, experiencing the same struggles that Sherlock had gone through previously.

John was married now, even if he did somehow return Sherlock's feelings there was nothing they could do about it. Sherlock knew that, which was why he had avoided the issue for so long. John felt guilty for throwing that kind of pressure on him, he should have recognized Sherlock's feelings sooner. Why didn't he? Well, for one thing, who would ever think a high-functioning sociopath would fall in-love with him?

The two stared at each other as the silence continued. John couldn't take it any longer, he decided he should just act. Acting would be better than trying to find the words to explain things.

_Actions speak louder than words._

John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock, sweetly, tenderly, at first. Sherlock's eyes widened, not expecting that. He didn't know what to do. His brain was finding it hard to process this. Was this a dream? Was this reality? Had he somehow confused the two?

Mycroft coughed, reminding the two that he was still there. John pulled away, smiling. Sherlock staring; still processing what had happened.

John smiled, assuring Sherlock that he could never hate him, that he had felt the same, "Don't tell Mary," he said. The two laughed. Mary didn't have to know, not of this event, not ever. 

Sherlock knew, that even though they couldn't ever be together, at least John had reciprocated his feelings. At least John continued to accept him. The three men stood up, waiting to be released from their prison.

Sherlock smiling, for even though John was out of his reach,  _there was always hope_.


End file.
